"Some difficulty has been experienced in fix ing the locality of the scene. The residents on the banks of the Quair are of opinion that 'The Glen,' now the magnificent mansion of Sir Charles Tennant, Bart., is the place referred to. On the other hand the writer has interviewed a number of Laidlaw's relatives-(some of them knew the poet intimatel )-and also several old people in the district, and the only opinion he has ever elicited is that 'the glen' alluded to in the song is the one through which the Douglas Burn meanders to the Yarrow. This view finds confirmation in the poem itself. In the first edition of Hogg's "Forest Minstrel" the line runs thus:- And Lucy served i' the glen a' the simmer.' The italics are ours, but the fact that 'glen' is not printed with a capital 'G' is strong evidence that Laidlaw was not thinking of the house of that name.'

A short time ago there was a discussion on this subject in the columns of the St. Ronan's Standard, a bright little weekly published in Innerleithen. In this correspondence the present writer, with a mind open to conviction, defended The Glen, and found support in the following letter from a well-known author who is well versed in Scottish songs. He writes:

"William Laidlaw was the author of 'Lucy's Flittin. He was the son of James Laidlaw, tenant of Blackhouse in Yarrow, or rather the - Douglas Burn. William Laidlaw was born November, 1780; rented Traquair Knowe an { thereafter a farm at Liberton, Midlothian; was Sir Walter Scott's amanuensis till 1832; was factor to Mr. Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth, Rosshire; also next factor to Sir Charles Lockart Ross of Balngowan, Rosshire; died 18th May, 1815, and was buried in Contin churchyard. The Glen, now the property of Sir Charles Tennant, was the scene of Lucy's Flittin',' and not the Douglas Burn. The hero was James Gray, afterwards Bailie Gray, Edinburgh. His mother, Catherine Nimmo, lies in Traquair churchyard, south-west corner. See Tombstone."

Another correspondent writes :

"James Gray, the hero of the song, was young shepherd to his father, who was farmer at The Glen, Lucy being a servant to the above; also, James Shiell was young ploughman there at the same time. I will give you the words of Shiell to a lass then, who went under the name Jessie, now Mrs. She, knowing the old man well, once said to him, Jamie, they say that "Lucy's Flittin'" was made on you.' 'Na, na, Jessie lass, it wasna made on me, but it was made on Jamie Gray, the son o' my auld maister, when I was young ploughman at The Glen. Weel did I ken baith Jamie

and Lucy, for we were a' there thegither.' James Shiell died thirty years ago, being eighty-four years of age. Other information I got was from a gentleman whose father was shepherd at Newhall (near The Glen), at the time, and knew them all personally. He says, 'Many a time has my father told me about the song being made on The Glen.' He also described the road down the burnside. Another writes me to say that his father and mother were personally acquainted with the author, hero and heroine, while his uncle was master mason at The Glen, and his father was one of his men at the time. His mother was the Schoolmaster's housekeeper at Traquair Riggs, and the Dominie's was a great howf of Laidlaw and the Ettrick Shepherd, and occasionally of Sir Walter Scott. His mother has heard them often speaking about 'Lucy's Flittin',' and also The Glen being the scene. I could give you information from other two gentlemen who were personally acquainted with the author, but I trust the above will suffice."

That the foregoing did not suffice is clearly shown by the following from a third correspondent.

"They all seem agreed that Lucy served at The Glen with Mr. Gray, fell in love with his son, James Gray, and was married to him. . . . Of course I do not attempt to deny that the parties mentioned knew James Gray and the lady he married, but I have never thought that he was the Jamie referred to in the poem. I am still inclined to think the story of Mr. Wm. Laidlaw of Thirlestanehope is the most authentic. This story I heard repeated less than a week ago by one of the men to whom Mr. Laidlaw told it. This story I will repeat :"Lucy was engaged to be married to a man, who was a tailor to trade, but while serving out her term at Blackhouse she became deeply attached to the young shepherd Jamie, and in fact became fonder of him than she had ever been of the other. Mr. Laidlaw of Thirlestanehope happened to be at Blackhouse, and was assisting William Laidlaw (author of the poem), and Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, with the 'smearin' of some sheep, when Lucy came to give them a glass of whisky before she left. They began chaffing her about her approaching marriage, and Hogg, in fun, said to her, 'Wad ye no raither hae Jamie, nae?' whereupon, to the consternation of all, she burst into a flood of tears. After she had left them, Mr. Laidlaw suggested to 'Willie' that he should write a poem on the subject, and he always believed that 'Lucy's Flittin' was written at his instigation."

In the presence of such conflicting statements is it not possible to get the evidence of some one who was a contemporary of the poet? Say, for instance, Leyden, the athlete, who lives, still hale and hearty, at Denholm, and who frequently came in contact with Hogg and his friends As far as the present writer can ascertain, William Laidlaw was a farmer near The Glen when he sent the song to Hogg for publication in the Forest Minstrel. Now, is it at all likely that a gentleman of his well known preciseness, residing in a district where The Glen had been known by that name for centuries, would so write that there might afterwards be any misunderstanding about the name? The small "g" referred to by the Rev. Mr. Borland has very little weight in our opinion, as Hogg was not always particular with the manuscripts he received, a proof of which is found in the fact that he, with his usual audacity, added a verse to Laidlaw's song, and used to assert that he alone was responsible for the death of poor Lucy.

"Chambers' History of Peeblesshire" and other authorities claim the old Glen House as the scene of the song, and until we can get soine better proof to the contrary, we retain our opinion that this popular idea is correct; but we strongly appeal to our readers to give us whatever information they may possess on this interesting question, which we would like to see settled once for all.

The Poetry of Scott.

LIKE clarion's blast, clear ringing through our land,

His patriot voice appeals, that all may hear Stern menaces of doubt and slavish fear, Which vanish at his words of high command, Penned with due care by no unskilful hand;

So true in form the minstrel's thoughts appear, That none can fail the author to revere, Whose noble intellect with wisdom planned, In many moods to manifest his mind; Sometimes akin to streams which quietly flow, Anon he sweeps like torrents unconfined, The leveller of falsehood base and low,

And permeating all, as beacons bright we find Those brilliant thoughts that shall throughout all ages glow.

Bonnie Tweed.

BY JOHN DICKSON.

O' a' the braid rivers that rin to the sea, By muirland an' mountain, through valley an' lea,

That glide through the woodland, or wind through the mead,

There's nane o' them a' like our ain bonnie Tweed.

In days o' lang syne, when to sport in her streams, Was my summer day's joy and my summer nicht's dream.

I play'd wi' her waves and o' time took nae heed, She ne'er wearied wi' me, nor me wi' the Tweed.

And when wi' the summer spate drumlie she

ran,

And I watch'd for her clearin' till nicht-fa' began,
Then dowie an' lonely I pillow'd my head
An' dream'd I was chas'd wi' big waves o' the
Tweed.

O, sweet o'er the haugh rings the milk-maiden's sang,

And the reed o' the shepherd the green knowes

amang,

But to me sweeter music than sang or than reed Is the ripple that breaks on the bosom o' Tweed.

Yet, tho' through this life's course I weel nigh

ha'e sped,

And friends ha'e grown few and companions ha'e fled,

O'er her clear flowin' waters nae change seems decreed,

Eld downa lay hands on the wavelets o' Tweed.

And when o'er the stream o' this life I ha'e pass'd

And laid kindly down for my lang sleep at last, 'Neath the auld kirkyard tree may it then be my

meed,

To sleep while she rins to the murmur o' Tweed.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

All communications relating to Literary and Business matters should be addressed to the Editor, Mr. NICHOLAS DICKSON, 19 Waverley Gardens, Crossmyloof, G asgow.

TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. THE BORDER MAGAZINE will be sent post ree to any part of the United Kingdom, Canada, the United States, and all Countries included in the Postal Union, or one year, 45.

THE POETRY OF SCOTT. By ADAM SMAIL,

BONNIE TWEED. By JOHN DICKSON,

EDITORIAL NOTES,

SOME RECENT BORDER Books,

LITERARY NOTES,

Editorial Notes.

HE lower half of this page in the premises of The Border Magazine is all that can be spared, in the meantime at least, for special editorial announcements. From this sanctum accordingly, will be issued the personal notes and observations that may be necessary to lay before our readers with reference to the conduct and well-being of the work to which we have set our hand.

The letters we have received since the publication of our opening number have been not only numerous beyond all expectation, but they have also contained many kind and encouraging congratulations on the appearance and general contents of the Magazine. From the newspapers and periodicals, too, come the same strain of encouragement: for all of which we have to offer our sincerest thanks.

Delighted as we naturally are with these manifestations of interest we have only to suggest in addition, that if the members and friends of the various Border Associations throughout the country would each become an Annual Subscriber, the success of the magazine would be assured from its very outset.

For the interesting contributions sent in for the promise of many more: we have to thank our numerous correspondents. The wealth of literary, historical, and romantic material throughout the Border Country seems inexhaust

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able: not only these, but artistic material as well. Few districts in Scotland lend themselves so naturally to the photographic art as the Borders. As the outcome of this, we are greatly gratified by the offers of contributions from Amateur Photographers As time goes on we hope to be able to accept of these, not only in illustration of the literary department of the magazine, but probably also to form a Monthly Supplement of Photographic work by Border Amateurs.

and well-wishers are to hand. One of these Numerous suggestions from various friends suggestions is already introduced in the present number, namely "Border Notes and Queries," with a beginning made by three anxious inquirers on points requiring information.

But who can think of the Border Land without its Farming and its Manufactures without its Military newsand Volunteering: without its Sports and Pastimes? Contributions from correspondents who can inform us from month to month, on all or any of these subjects, will be gratefully accepted.

We have also to remind the secretaries of the various Border Associations throughout the country, that we shall be glad to have an account from them of all that is going on from time to time. In a word, we are anxious to make this Magazine the means through which our readers will be kept abreast of all that is worthy of being recorded in the modern social life of the Borders.

S

The Quarry Master.

A BORDER STORY.

BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

CHAP. III.

AMONG THE FALLEN FIRS.

HORT and sharp and sudden as had been the hail-storm which obliged Tom Watson and Tony Wilky to take refuge in the old quarry at Eildonlea, the tempest of wrath and fury which broke over the head of the former, on his return home, was infinitely more violent.

Talk of Colonel Downward's infirmity of It was serenity itself when placed temper ! alongside that of John Watson the forester. Let us respect the poor Colonel's wish to be forgotten and forgiven: the last act recorded of him was a kind and manly one, as we saw from the letter which he wrote to the gamekeeper. But the forester has to come before us so often in this story that we cannot dismiss him so easily into the region of absence and forgetfulness. We cannot get on without him indeed the sooner, therefore, that we get to know the forester's failings, the sooner will we get to know his better qualities too, for of the latter he had no small share.

John Watson's failing was nothing more nor less than an unfortunate infirmity of temper. Mentally he seemed to be made up of such combustible essence that on the slightest provocation it blazed up into flame and fury. The explosion however, did more harm to himself than the person on whom it exploded: it left him scarred and burned and repentant-till the next time.

There was a dreadful scene in the forester's home when Tom returned from the fox-hunting expedition-so dreadful, indeed, that I fear to record or report it at this early stage of the story, lest the reader should take it into his or her head to throw The Border Magazine away, and resolve never again to lift it until the irascible forester has disappeared from its pages for ever.

Next morning, Sunday, just as the bells of St. Johns were calling people to the various churches in the town, John Watson softly opened the door of the little bedroom where his son was still lying-not asleep but afraid to get up. In a voice broken with emotion the forester said, "Tom, my boy, I canna gang to the kirk the day mysel'. I'm away to the Wae man's Wood, but I'll be back in an hour or so. Your breakfast's ready when ye like to get up

Leaving his cottage, the forester walked rapidly

away in the direction he had indicated, and ere long reached that portion of the Eildonlea plantations known as the Wae man's Wood. Who the original wae man was, or who had given the plantation such a name, can only be conjectured but both its name, and its condition, were in entire sympathy with the forester when he arrived on the scene A few weeks before that visit, a storm of unexampled force and fury had burst over the Border Country, and left its mark on many a Border plantation. Standing high, and stretching upward from the Quarry Hill, the Waeman's Wood had suffered severely from the storm. Hundreds of tall Scotch firs were lying as they had fallen before the blast: a scene of wreck and ruin and desolation.

"A picture o' my ain desolate heart!" said the forester, sitting down on the trunk of a fallen fir. "Oh, the senselessness of yieldin' to this terrible temper o' mine! Last nicht to lift my hand, and speak to my motherless laddie in the way I did! The very thocht o't drives me dementi. Maybe he did forget some duty yesterday, but the fox-hunt was eneuch to account for it, and I should hae minded my ain short-comings when I was his age."

Subdued, repentant, and wholly John Watson the forester in his right mind, the sorrowing man remained among the fallen firs, communing with the thoughts that came rushing through his mind. The things that were unseen mingled with those that were seen, and set him pondering over the meaning of this life with all its sins and sorrows and bereavements. For John Watson had known adversity and sorrow in no small degree. Death had invaded his home so often that he was now a lonely and elderly man, with only one left out of a large family: namely, Tom the youngest-the lad who saw something below the huge boulder lying at the mouth of the Eildonlea Quarry.

Leaving the forester among the firs, let us relate what we know about the home surroundings of the other actor in the great drama of this wonderful business about the quarry.

CHAP. IV.

THE QUARRY RE-VISITED.

TONY WILKY and his sister Mary were the only children of their mother, and she was now a widow. This Mrs. Wilky was a querulous unhappy kind of creature, liking nothing better than to sit over the fire wondering, aye wondering, what was to happen next, as if she had never seen or heard of anything that had really happened after all. She did not live by

the hour, or by the day, but piled up misery by lugging into to-day the possibilities of to-morrow, or next week, or even next year. She was a woman always with a future in front of her, discounting so little of it from day to day that she had no present.

Tony Wilky, her only son, was rather inclined to take things easy. He was much given to wondering, like his mother, what was to be the upshot of next week or next month. There certainly would be something next year. Perhaps by that time he would be rolling in wealth, young as he was, and standing high in the Councils of the County, let alone the staff or, maybe, the editorial chair, of The Border Beacon.

How the work of the Post Office of St. Johns could be conducted, how the stationery department of the shop could be attended to, or the newspapers delivered in the mornings and evenings, with such a postmistress as Mrs. Wilky at the head of the establishment, was a mystery. But there need have been no mystery, for the mainspring of the household was Mary-a pretty girl active and graceful in all her movements, sunny and cheery in disposition. A regular Border beauty, too, with her warm complexion, her dark hair with always a rose in it, and a pair of the most beautiful eyes that I, Alexander Selkirk, the writer of this story, ever beheld in a young girl's head. For Mary was only a girl, younger than her brother, but possessed of more 'go" and character than mother aud brother combined.

About this great quarry business, however, what of it? We have seen, or heard at least, how Tom Watson was left to get up to breakfast when he felt inclined to rise. Tony Wilky, too, was left much in the same predicament, for his mother and sister had gone to church, leaving him to get up when sufficiently rested. Breakfast over, Tony proceeded to Eildonlea, and called at the forester's cottage, where he was admitted by his partner in the grand discovery of the previous evening.

After some preliminaries had been discussed and settled, the two young would-be millionaires set out to reconnoitre the entrance to the quarry. They were almost afraid that the Quarry Hill itself had disappeared, carrying with it not only Samson's Putting-stone, but all the wondrous wealth that lay beneath it. Anxious to see the quarry in day-light, the two millionaires in embryo, set forth on their adventurous quest. In the most roundabout direction possible, they gradually closed in upon the Quarry Hill, ready to arrest it in case it should think of running away with its untold wealth below the boulder. At last they gain the mouth of the quarry, they

charge up the steep approach and find, to their inexpressible joy and relief, that the great boulder is there all right-firmly embedded in the debris, with the inscription all right and untouched:

"Blest be the man.........turns me..

For underneath..... ..gold.........found." Here was a fine example of the missing word conundrum. Who was to solve it? Of a sanguine and hopeful temperament, Tom Watson declared that the original inscription must have run:

"Blest be the man who turns me round, For underneath me gold is found." Tony Wilky, however, took a less cheery view of the interpretation that might be put upon the inscription. His version ran :

Tom

"Blest be the man who turns me round, For underneath may gold be found." Argument arose over the difference. Watson held fast by the indicative mood of the verb To be, while Tony advanced several arguments in favour of the subjunctive mood of the same verb. Words ran high: argument grew warm and warmer, until the two high contending parties observed several persons coming in the direction of the Quarry Hill. These, however, turned out to be only peaceable people returning home from church-not disposed to visit the quarry on Sundays.

The mere sight, however, of living beings in the vicinity of the Quarry Hill was enough to cool the two disputants. They dropped argument and commenced something practical-how to get at the buried treasure lying below the boulder. The more they examined the scenery of their great discovery, the greater seemed to be the probability that the vastness of the subterranean caverns would prove to be beyond the wildest flights of the imagination. So vast seemed to be the treasures lying below the boulder that the money deposited there might be employed to wipe off the National Debt, and place the owners of the "find" not only among the wealthiest of the Empire, but among the greatest of its benefactors. For, relieved of all national debt, Britannia would tell her sons to take a holiday for a year or two, and visit their Colonial brothers and sisters scattered over the globe, taking their cousins, the Americans, in the home-coming.

Returning once more to the practical, Tom Watson and Tony Wilky resolved to commence work on the following evening. And such was to be the energetic nature of the attack, and the resolute character of the onslaught that it was calculated by Friday evening at latest, the immensity of treasure would be got at. On the